The Time Traveler's Almanac (129 page)

“Did you know him?” I asked.

Will shook his head. “He reminds me of my father, is all.”

“What will happen to Madoc?”

Will sighed. “He has no money, no citizenship. Kind folk like you’d find anywhere in Newfoundland will help him out, but he’ll be a burden unless he learns some English. Maybe he could sell his story; I don’t know. But he’ll end up in limbo, without Canadian citizenship.”

“I have an idea about that, but I need to discuss it with Rebecca first,” I hinted. As Madoc’s
pro bono
lawyer, she would know whether the legal loophole I saw would actually work. “But in the end, wouldn’t it be simpler to let him go back on his ship? Imagine finding out what the world would be like in seventy-five, a hundred-and-fifty, three hundred years from now. See how future generations live!”

“He’ll be adrift and alone.”

“No one needs to be.” I took a risk and took Will’s hand. He didn’t pull away.

“Have dinner with me tonight, Kate?” he asked sheepishly.

“I’d like that.”

*   *   *

“Come in, Kate, and shut the door.” Professor Claudia Seif had recently been appointed the Chair of Linguistics at Memorial.

I knew why she wanted to see me.

“I had a call from Harry Connon,” she said. “When I recommended you to the detective, I was expecting diligent, responsible analysis. Instead, you’ve made yourself a laughingstock of the field. It reflects badly on the department.”

“I stand by my judgment, Claudia. It’s not the orthodox answer or the safe answer, but it’s what I believe. I won’t lie.”

“Watch what you say to the press, Kate. Think about your future.”

I sighed. “What future? I’ve been paying my dues for the last five years, moving from city to city, and I’ve yet to make any short lists for tenure-track positions.”

“Kate, you’re a good linguist.” Her voice was softer now. “The breaks will come. Drop this ‘Madoc’ madness.”

There would be no convincing her. “Thanks for the talk, Claudia. You’ve given me much to think about,” I said, and left.

*   *   *

O’Reilly’s Irish Pub was packed for the screech-in/press conference, and the journalists were chattering excitedly among themselves. Claudia stared daggers at me from the back row.

Will introduced himself, then began, “On December twenty-sixth, a Viking longship was discovered in the Harbour of St. John’s. Five men were found aboard, but only one was alive. Autopsies by the Coroner’s Office indicate that the men died of hypothermia. The survivor was in quarantine for fourteen days as required by the Quarantine Act, but showed no signs of disease. However, when the man regained consciousness, we discovered that he didn’t speak English, French or any other modern language.

“Several experts examined the body of evidence about our mystery man. The ship and his language point to the man’s identity as Prince Madoc of Gwynedd, a twelfth century Welsh legend.” The journalists whispered and chuckled when they heard this. “Whether this is a hoax or a case of time-travel, remains in dispute among our experts. At this point, I’ll yield the floor to them: but please save your questions until they all have had a chance to speak.”

We each took a turn presenting the evidence. Connon expounded on the hoax hypothesis, while the doctor and the coroner expressed ambivalence. When it was my turn, I glanced at Claudia. What if she was right? Was I throwing away my career by standing behind what I believed?

I looked at Madoc, wondering what would become of him. He smiled.

I was as alone as he was. My feeling of being disconnected wasn’t because of the fog and the rain. If I really looked, that sense of not belonging stretched back for years. We were two of a kind: I too wanted to see the future and start afresh. I knew then that I couldn’t hedge like the others did. I
had
to be Madoc’s voice in this matter, even if it meant my career. I took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Based on the linguistic evidence, I must conclude Madoc is truly a man out of time.” I went on to discuss why it was nearly impossible to fake pronunciation and grammar as consistently as a native speaker. “Given his native fluency in Middle Welsh, I must conclude that he is, indeed, from the twelfth century.”

Claudia stood, shook her head in disappointment, and left.

All eyes were on me. I felt like The Fool on a tarot card, about to step off a cliff.

Rebecca saved me from the press. “I’m representing Madoc
pro bono,
ensuring that his rights aren’t being violated. Currently, we’re unable to ascertain his nationality. But suppose that he really is Madoc. He would have been among the first Europeans to settle in Newfoundland. There’s no disputing that he’s Welsh; all the evidence pointed to that. But is he
Canadian?
Ah.

“The legend tells that Madoc set out with settlers to a newly found land across the sea. We know he was at the Colony of Avalon. Even Professor Connon admits that Madoc knew things about Avalon only an expert would know. And later this spring, archaeologists will begin excavations at a previously unknown site, to see if Madoc was right about a hitherto undiscovered building that existed in Calvert’s time. If he lived in Avalon, then by the Newfoundland Act that admitted Newfoundland to Confederation in 1948, that would also make him a citizen of Canada.”

“But he wasn’t alive at Confederation, was he?” a reporter shouted.

“Well, he certainly wasn’t dead.” Laughter. “He truly is one of the first immigrants to Newfoundland. I say we, a people known for our hospitality, take him in with open arms. To that effect, we’re throwing a ‘screech-in’ here at O’Reilly’s, and you’re all invited!”

The question period was chaotic. I thought I handled most of the questions well, but the ones that asked if this was all a joke were frustrating. Will finally announced it was time for the screech-in. As a native-born Newfoundlander had to perform the ceremony, Will would do the honours. They dragged us to the center and crowned us with yellow, plastic sou’wester hats. Then, we were given a full shot of screech rum.

“Hold your screech up high and repeat after me.
Long may your big jib draw!
” shouted Will.

“
Long may your big jib draw!
” I yelled, even though I had no idea what that meant. I only knew I needed a stiff drink. I squealed when the rum hit my taste buds and gut.

“That’s why they call it
screech!
” someone shouted. The crowd laughed.

They prompted Madoc to repeat the same. “
Long mei ywr bug si’ib dra’?
”

“Close enough! Bring out the cod!”

*   *   *

I woke in my bed with a hangover and an upset stomach, not remembering how I got home. Rum and fried baloney definitely didn’t belong together.

I found Will asleep on my couch. He must have driven me home.

Not wanting to wake Will, I went into the bedroom and called Rebecca. “I think we need to help Madoc back on his journey. And I’m seriously thinking about joining him.”

“You mean, going to the future?” Rebecca asked. “Kate, think it through! What would you do there? End up like him, a living museum?”

“I’ll find something,” I said. “Imagine, a chance to put theories of language change to the test!”

“What about your classes?”

“I doubt I still have a job.” I twisted the phone cord. “I’d like to leave instructions to take care of unfinished business.”

“Kate, give it more thought! People
died
on that last voyage.”

“I thought of that. We can stock up on supplies, prepare ourselves better.”

Rebecca sighed. “You’re serious about this? What about a crew? And a ship?”

“I’ll think of something.”

After the call, I gently woke Will. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Thanks for looking after me.”

“My pleasure,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Can I make you breakfast?”

I smiled to hide my troubled thoughts. “Know how to make peach pancakes?”

I told Will about my plan as we ate. “We need to give him back his ship, Will, by St. Patrick’s Day.”

“What? We can’t.”

“It’s his property. His destiny. His journey doesn’t end here, I know it.”

“The brass will never allow it!”

“One day, that’s all I ask. Call it a re-enactment of the Madoc voyage, a heritage moment, something. If it doesn’t work, you can repossess the boat, and us.”

“Us? What are you saying?”

“I’m going with Madoc.”

Silence hung between us.

“I’d like you to stay, Kate,” Will said at last, taking my hands.

I squeezed his hands. “Come with us.”

“‘Now’ is enough for me, Kate. Is it for you?”

“A chance like this comes once in a lifetime. I think there was a reason I met Madoc, here and now. He’s the adventure I’ve been looking for.”

“Not stability?”

“That, too,” I admitted. “Perhaps I can’t have both, not yet. Maybe there isn’t a bright future seventy-five years from now. But to give up a chance to experience something extraordinary? I don’t think I can.”

“Isn’t that what love can be?”

I looked into his eyes. He was the sweetest man I had met in a long time. I didn’t want to break his heart. “Help us.”

Will sighed. “You’re a stubborn one, Kate Tannhauser. Very well, the future is yours. But for now, the present is ours.”

He leaned over the table and kissed me. It was a long, unhurried kiss, just as I imagined.

*   *   *

The media frenzy that followed in the weeks after was not unexpected. Our time-travel theory was portrayed as ridiculous by most, praised by few, and always controversial. I had a spate of invitations for television, newspaper and radio interviews, and I agreed to the reputable ones, but ignored the sensational ones. The consensus was,
this could only happen in Newfoundland.

Rebecca and her husband opened their guest room to Madoc, after he was discharged from the hospital. I met with him to discuss joining him on his journey. “
We will return you to your ship, to your storm,
” I said in his language. “
I am coming with you.
”

There was a look of surprise and joy on Madoc’s face. “
I am honoured, Lady Kate. But we need more men.
”

“
I will find them,
” I said.

Madoc nodded. “
Bring no iron. Mistake. Danger.
”

As far as I could tell, the phenomenon that allowed him to travel through time was based on powerful magnetic fields. Passing through such a gateway with ferrous metals over a certain size either disrupted the field, or made the transition dangerous. He had discovered it on his first journey, finding that objects made of iron aboard their ship burned with
canwyll yr ysbryd,
‘spirit candles’ or what we called St. Elmo’s Fire, followed by a sudden snowstorm. Although they tossed all their iron off the ship, he still lost two men to the waves. On his last journey, someone must have accidentally brought iron onto the
Gwennan Gorn, a theory supported by that twisted iron nail found aboard the ship.

We still needed a crew.

I met with the Society of Creative Anachronism Seneschal of the Shire of
An n-Eilean-ne,
which was Scots Gaelic for ‘an island of our own’, and gave him the details of my plan. “Imagine, a chance to see the future, a one-way trip. I know it’s a lot to ask, leaving this time behind. But I need people who are willing to take a risk, and soon.”

“It’s an unusual request, but let me send out a notice. You never know, with us lot. We mostly look to the past, but some of us also look to the future. After all, what could be more appealing than becoming anachronisms ourselves?” He smiled. “But it seems to me, you could do a great deal of good for people who have lost hope.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are some diseases modern medicine can’t cure, but what about future medicine? Some people don’t have seventy-five years, but they hang on to hope.”

He was right. There might be new cures in the future. Then again, there might not be. All I could promise them was a gamble.

*   *   *

Slowly, the calls and emails came. People had heard about the opportunity through the SCA. I told them it might be a dangerous, one-way trip, but the journey would be the adventure of a lifetime. I never heard back from the majority again; but to my surprise, some were serious about joining the crew.

Though he disapproved of my plans, Will helped weed the jokesters and the dangerous from the list of volunteers. “It’s not cheap to fly to Newfoundland. Only the serious ones will come,” Will said. We whittled the list to twelve, ten men and two women. Four had sailing experience, and one was a Welshman who offered to expedite translations with Madoc.

The crew arrived a week before St. Patrick’s Day. They were a diverse crowd: fisherman, physicist, historian, ex-marine, writer, student, trucker, doctor, and more. They all had their own reasons to come with us.

We prepared provisions, avoiding ferromagnetic materials altogether. The SCA rallied and made period clothing appropriate to Madoc’s time. We chose the four lions of Gwynedd for our symbol, stitched onto white and green cloth.

Madoc and I continued teaching each other our languages. “
It’s not too late, Lady Kate. You can stay with good Will. I promise to see them safely into the future.
”

I shook my head. “
It’s what I want.
”

Alas, St. Patrick’s Day came all too soon. Tomorrow, we would set sail.

I spent that night with Will, cradled in his arms.

I asked him one last time. “Come with me.”

He held me tighter. “I need certainty.” He reached for his coat by the bed, and took out a small black box from his pocket. My heart pounded. A ring?

No. Inside the box was a golden necklace, its pendant adorned with the salt water rock I had so admired at Avalon. He put it around my neck and fastened it. “It’s not iron, so it’s safe. Something to remember me by. I love you, Kate.”

I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. “And I you. Remember me, Will.”

*   *   *